(In anticipation of a promised water-colour to illustrate the poem 'Love in Winter.' See page 74.) THE Spring will come, but ah! will She? -- The girl that BOUGHTON promised me? -- My Bella, who he said should go, In fitting tint across the snow! Yet why, forsooth, shall I complain, Since this my loss is others' gain; -- Since BOUGHTON, even now, perhaps, Is painting frows in Friesland caps; Or puts, maybe, the final touch To some fresh Lovelace in Low Dutch; Or else he makes the world more rich By still one more New-England witch; Or sees upon his canvass grow Some priestess crowned with mistletoe. Then, by and by, the crowd will rush To praise these fruits of BOUGHTON'S brush, And bless the artist who can blend Unfading beauty with Ostend; Or trace immortal truth behind The furrowed face of humankind. So why (I say) should I complain Since this my loss is others' gain! And yet, and yet, I fain would see The girl that BOUGHTON promised me! |